So Weird: A Scieszka Story
by crazykitsune17
Summary: Scieszka centric one shot. Crack pairing warning! . . .I’ve read every book in the library. To me, that’s a noble accomplishment, but to others, it’s just plain silly. . .


A/N: Umm… crack warning :sweatdrop: This was actually written THIS WEEK! So huzzah for you, here's a glimpse of my newer writings! Enjoy! And review!

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Disclaimer: Poor Arakawa-sensei… She probably wants to just freaking shoot me. Hey, at least it isn't Roy x Ed! XD Anyway, none of the FMA-ness belongs to me… I'll bet this pairing does though! I mean, seriously, how many fanfics do you read that actually involve Scieszka? I haven't seen too many… What I'm trying to say here is: I OWN NOTHING! FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST DISCLAIMED! Read and review!

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**So Weird: A Scieszka Story**

by crazykitsune17

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I've read every book in the library. To me, that's a noble accomplishment, but to others, it's just plain silly. It even got me fired!

"Read read read. Is that all you ever do, Scieszka?"

Besides eating and sleeping and all those other necessary things of course, yes. I've never voiced that out loud, though. Sarcasm is not one of my favorite hobbies (prefer reading). I was friendless enough as it is since everyone thought I was a freak for liking books better than interacting with people (it's not _my_ fault; they're just so _interesting_!); I didn't need a sardonic attitude to plague my reputation as well.

Mostly I just kept to myself. Until the day I was… well… rescued from a pile of books by two boys, State Alchemist Edward Elric and his younger brother, Alphonse. That had to be one of the best days of my life! Well, maybe the day I read my first Shakespeare drama when I was five years old could give that supposed best day ever a run for its money, but you know what I mean!

Anyway, Ed and Al showed up and asked me to confirm the existence of a certain book by a Dr. Tim Marcoh. I did, and later I made the most important decision of my entire life – I revealed my secret talent.

Hardly anyone knew about my photographic memory before then. It's such a weird talent; I was sure that if I had made that fact public, I would be scorned even more. I was already labeled derogatively as a freakishly obsessed bookworm. I didn't need another label as the literal Memory Lane, "Nostalgia" for short.

But it turned out that I was actually able to help the Elric brothers! With my weird, freakish talent, I was able to make two boys really happy. Not to mention I got my foot in the door with the military by that little favor – and plus, the compensation was beyond belief!

Well, after that little episode, I was then called by the military to use my photographic memory to reprint all of their records that were burned in the library accident. It was hard work - _very _hard work. I always felt like my hand was going to fall off! – but I liked it a lot. It was enough just knowing that I was actually useful, that my talents were appreciated. I was doing important work.

The benefits of the job were quite nice also. A nifty uniform, a bit of respect, _income_, plus the world's nicest supervisor.

Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes was the one who gave me instructions. He worked with the investigations department of the military, so the records I were rewriting were, of course, quite essential to him.

He knew how to get the most out of his workers, that was for sure – I worked like a dog for that guy! As soon as I'd finish one file or page, it was "That's great, Scieszka! Now, can you start writing another one…?"

Usually I responded with a dramatic groan or a swoon, but I always did the work, no matter how numb or cramped my hand felt. I even tried using my left hand to write once, but I stopped that when Mr. Hughes complained that he couldn't differentiate my a's from my o's from my e's from my f's. And the last thing I wanted to do was cause trouble for my honorable supervisor.

I remember rewriting the entire article Mr. Hughes had complained about and handing it to him in the most apologetic manner I could manage after barely three hours of sleep the next morning. I had stayed up the entire night redoing it. It was a long article, too!

But Mr. Hughes's reaction was more than enough to make it all worthwhile. He gave me one of his huge smiles – the ones he wore whenever he talked about his daughter, Elysia – and a tousle of my hair along with a "Scieszka, you've outdone yourself. You didn't have to rewrite that article. It must have taken you all night; it was quite lengthy."

Indeed, the stack of papers in his arms was at least four inches thick. "Yes, sir, it did," I told him. "But I did it just for you, Mr. Hughes, sir. I didn't want you to hurt your eyes trying to read my writing."

Mr. Hughes smiled and replied, "Scieszka, if I can read the colonel's and FullMetal's chicken scratch, I can read yours. And you don't have to worry about my eyesight. It's beyond repair anyway." He tilted his glasses down his nose a bit to prove a point. I caught a glimmer of laughter in his softened eyes – a silent glimmer as if we were sharing a private, unspoken joke. Which, in a sense, we were. I could tell in his eyes that we were both thinking the same thing:

_We're quite alike in that sense, eh?_

Stupid thing to joke about, I know, near-sightedness was. Mine had come from too many years with my nose plastered in a book. I'm not sure how Mr. Hughes got his glasses. I never asked.

I do remember, though, that it was the thing that happened next that made me realize just what exactly was going on in my head… and in my heart.

"Well, since you exerted yourself so hard for my sake," Mr. Hughes said, fiddling with something in his chest pocket. "I ought to repay you with something a little extra…"

And with a loving, contented grin, he pulled out a very nice four-inch photograph of him and his daughter, Elysia, posing with a giant teddy bear and matching smiles. It was that picture that dropped the bomb of explosive recognition.

I was getting feelings for Mr. Hughes. Feelings a girl my age shouldn't be getting from their superiors. I could've chalked it up to those young girl fantasy feelings that some get when they see a charming, handsome older man performing beautifully on a theatre stage. I remember having some of those feelings myself when I was younger and I was reading _Don Quixote_. I thought for sure that I had fallen in love with the Don. How silly!

It's foolish to think that, to even write it! What I felt for Mr. Hughes was something more than just a fantasy-girl crush. It was something I'd never felt in _anybody_ before. Just the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he would always talk about his daughter, gosh, even the way he looked and smelled all rolled up together into a big ball of emotion in the bottom of my heart was enough to make me sure that it wasn't just a frivolous, fickle, fleeting crush.

I started to feel funny at that time, like I was going to faint. Not from the exhaustion, as Mr. Hughes had figured it was when he caught me under my arms just as I began to fall. I'm not exactly sure what had caused that dizzying sensation – whether it was the heated blush creeping up my cheeks and forehead or the embarrassment or the despair. Whatever it was, it passed relatively quickly, but Mr. Hughes still insisted on telling me to go home for the day and get some much-needed rest.

"I've been working you too hard. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I'll even drive you home."

Wordlessly, I had accepted. On the way to my apartment, Mr. Hughes didn't say much, kindly leaving me to my thoughts.

I couldn't _love_ Mr. Hughes. It wouldn't be right. The picture told me that he had a wife and a daughter, neither of which he boasted about with anything less than passionate zeal, and that's putting it lightly. It would be wrong of me to love him when he had such a good family.

Yet I couldn't deny it. I had become even more weird just when I thought I was becoming a respectable person of the military. I had fallen in love with the Lieutenant Colonel! If that wasn't weird, I don't know what is.

I knew I could never tell anyone about this. And I never did. Not until I was eighty-one years old and my love of the past was long and unjustly gone. And I only told one person of the feelings that had gripped me so many years ago. I told Edward Elric, my husband, when I was lying on my deathbed just moments before I passed away.

His only reaction was a smile. I thought I saw a hint of a laugh in there, too, but as soon as I closed my eyes, it was gone.

"Scieszka, you're so weird," he said. "But I love you."

The last sensation I ever felt was his lips brushing my forehead. That and the smile that tugged against the corners of my lips…

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--crazykitsune17-- 


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